


Along The Line

by toastisgood



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Addiction, Death, Love, M/M, Moving On
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:48:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24414610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toastisgood/pseuds/toastisgood
Summary: Two years after the suicide of Sherlock Holmes, John is doing worse than ever. Struggling with staying sober, and trying to move past his grief. One question has always plagued the back of his mind...Is Sherlock really dead?(I do not own BBC SHERLOCK, nor the characters)
Relationships: Johnlock, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock/John - Relationship
Comments: 4
Kudos: 5





	1. CHAPTER ONE

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Hello! this is my fanfiction of the BBC series SHERLOCK! I do not own the show or the characters, but I did write the plot! I decided to move my fanfiction from one website to A03, because I feel that it will get more love on here! I hope you enjoy!

"Stop taunting me."

I could hear my voice brake as I whispered to the empty chair sitting across from me. Though it was meant for the chair: it could have been said about the whole flat in truth. The emptiness: of his chair, of his bed, of his bathroom, of their shared kitchen, shared life, shared friendship: it taunted me. Mocking and screeching so loud at the fact that I was only half a man without him. Half a person.

Pathetic.

Absolutely pathetic.

"Please.."

My words were soaked up by the thick silence that veiled itself over the flat. I was completely and utterly alone here.

Again.

At that moment when I felt like crumbling the most, I decided I would visit your grave. It had been far too long since I'd been there. My wounds were still as fresh as the day of your funeral. All of it gave me nightmares really: I don't sleep much. I deserved this, didn't I? Deserved to lose you. I took you for granted. I-I didn't stay with you. I left you that day, sooner than you would leave me, but how was I supposed to know? I'm only a man, I'm just a man Sherlock. Why did you expect more? Did you think I could deduce you? Strip you down into nothing more than your bones and see your true and raw human emotions? No. You're to complex for that. You knew I wouldn't have been able to. You would have shown me in other ways, little things. You did, didn't you? You believed I could notice them. You believed in me and yet I let you down. I was too reckless to see it. I was always a few steps behind you, wasn't I? Stupid, Stupid, Stupid!

Sometimes, I wish it were me that had jumped.

I pushed up from the chair and wiped my face. I need air. Maybe a walk around the block would do it. Maybe. I decided against it, I could just open a window. Every drop of energy from my mortal body was dripped dry: body turned to cement, made it hard to move. It takes a lot out of me: being in my head that is.

I dragged my body to your room. The floors whined and groaned underneath my heavy feet. If I were to climb the stairs to mine, I'm sure I wouldn't make it. Besides, I missed you. Missed your smell. Your experiments. The grin that you shared only to me. Everything.

You were my everything.

Tears scratched and pulled at the corners of my eyes, not now. The door creaked on its hinges, of course, it would. It hadn't been opened in a year. I stepped inside: it was cold. Night had taken on its full effect as if someone decided that it was okay to flip off the switch that held the evening light. I climbed into your bed. It wasn't cold. It wasn't warm. My body heat would soon soak into it and then it would be something. Better than it's current nothing. Your blankets smelled like you. Obviously they would, it was your bed. You had slept here. Two years ago.

The bed warmed, as it should. My eyelids closed, as they should.

It was quiet, as it should be.

Hateful.

I saw you: I was half asleep now. You were sitting next to me on the bed; your beautiful pale hands were clasped together. You looked peaceful, kind of like a calm ghost. I could feel myself shudder at that small thought, my body doesn't feel like mine anymore. I keep looking at you through my hazy vision. You were thinking, weren't you? It looked like it. You always looked at peace when you were in deep thought. I remember starring at you. It was during one of our smaller cases that you had found interesting enough to think about for a while, not dismiss entirely. Something that old lady had said made you think for a while, and I couldn't help but stare. I don't remember exactly what she had said to you, but you thought about it for days. I had starred at you a lot that week, I'm sure you noticed. You never said anything. That was then.

I wanted to reach out to you, touch you. My arms were heavy. My mind was heavy. Bricks filled my lungs. Maybe I'd stop breathing and join you; wherever you are.

You looked at me.

You looked sad.

You never showed your feelings -I know you had them- at least not in noticeable ways. You were sad, weren't you? Yeah. You'd been sad for a while. I think I felt it but refused to believe it. You were Sherlock Holmes, the greatest consulting detective there ever was, why would you be sad? You're human. That's why you'd be sad. I had forgotten. I really am a terrible friend aren't I Sherlock?

You shifted your weight and leaned closer to me. You placed a kiss on my forehead as if you were apologizing to me. Your lips were soft. Caring. If you wanted to apologize, why didn't you just say it?

Oh. Right. The dead don't talk, do they?

This was a dream, wasn't it?

You leaned back into your original position next to me. Were you waiting for something Sherlock? What were you waiting for? I turned away from you. If you needed me, you would have told me. Maybe I can speak to you like this. Yeah. You didn't exactly let me get my words in that day, did you? I was usually the one listening anyway.

"Why did you leave me? Was it because of what I'd said to you? You know I didn't mean that right? I was angry."

Nothing.

"I'm sorry. I meant to say it to you that day, I just couldn't find the right time."

Nothing.

"Are you gone?"

Nothing.

"Okay. I'm here if you need me, Sherlock. I'm sorry I didn't tell you before."

My eyes closed. Maybe I was going crazy, I mean it wasn't the first time I've seen you. I see you everywhere. In books, In trash telly, In people. Little things. It all reminds me of you. Maybe I am crazy. Insane even. It didn't really matter anymore. You weren't here.

At some point when the loneliness subsided into a deep sleep, I thought I heard your voice. It was low, inaudible. I heard it. Sleep hugged me tight, refusing to let me go, so even though I was sure I'd heard your voice: there was nothing I could do to investigate it.

Sleep.


	2. CHAPTER TWO

***********

Morning eventually came.

Dread clawed it's way up my spine, settling itself at the base of my neck. My eyes had only been open for a moment when all the memories and emotions came flooding back in. For a split second, I thought you were alive. Are you alive? No. You can't be.

I flung your covers away from me, the smell of you was suddenly overwhelming. Wind tapped lightly on your windowpane: reminding me that I was to visit you today no matter the weather.

Today marked two years since you decided to leave.

You decided to die.

A long drawn out sigh escaped from me as I removed myself from your bed, from my warmth that I -sometimes- pretended was yours. The night was long gone by now, and so were the dreams of you.

Strong. You can be strong today John. Just for today.

After reworking your sheets and covers back into their original positions, I closed your door with care and dressed in a plain black sweater and trousers. It felt a bit odd dressing up to see you, well your grave. It's been two years since I've visited last. I've always meant to stop by, but I never could bring myself to actually do it. Maybe that makes me a coward. Maybe it makes me selfish, but I just couldn't. Not then, but... maybe today. Better late than never, as they say.

"You'll understand, won't you? When I show up to your grave today, you won't be angry that I hadn't visited you yet? You won't ask me why I haven't, will you?"

I was standing near my chair. My questions floated around the flat, bouncing off books, knick-knacks, and papers trying to find you. My voice felt scratchy like I hadn't used it in years, even though I have.

You didn't answer.

You couldn't answer.

You're dead.

Today was going to be a very long day.

I grabbed my coat off the rack and headed out of the building, dodging Mrs. Hudson on my way out. I loved her to bits, but I couldn't face her either. When she stopped by the flat, I would ignore her: hoping she would just stop coming by altogether, and with time she did. She reminds me too much of the days spent with you. I'm a terrible person, but I'm helpless against it.

The sky was covered in thick, grey clouds. Thunder rolled far away, a storm was brewing, definitely a perfect fitting for such a day as today. Winds snapped at my coat and ran its fingers through my hair: it was comforting in a sudden sorrowful way. As I approached the Fern-back graveyard -where you are buried- an old friend of mine stepped out of the iron gates holding his little girl.

"Micheal?"

Micheal looked away from his kid, a moment of confusion flashed across his face before he gave me a wide smile that spread from ear to ear.

"Ah! John! It's nice to finally see you again mate, it's been what? Three months? I've tried phoning you, you never answer."

I gave a sheepish smile, my hand making its way to the back of my neck. "I've...uh, been busy." A complete and utter lie. I had seen Micheal's name pop up on my screen multiple times when I was sitting around feeling sorry for myself and missing you, and I wanted to answer of course, but I always let it ring out. It seems like I want to do a lot these days, but never put the energy into actually doing it.

"Have you been drinking again, John?"

Micheal's voice lowered to a serious whisper. I shook my head, I've been sober for six months now. The AA meetings just didn't help me anymore. There was no point in going if my heart wasn't in it, but even though I stopped attending, I stayed as far away from alcohol as humanly possible. After Harry...I couldn't handle it.

The meeting's just consisted of the same few people talking about the same problems they've had for years. The few new people we had gotten at the time -if we had gotten any- had been inspired at first, they had thrived as they recovered... for a while, then soon stopped coming altogether after a few months. I hated it all. Of course, I could have told Micheal that, as he was my AA sponsor and maybe he could've talked me into staying, but today wasn't the day to go into the details of it all.

"No, Micheal. I am six months sober, with that AA chip or not."

He gave a nod of approval and understanding. It was hard, and by the way, I probably looked, no AA meeting was going to fix me. He kissed his little one on the cheek, hugging her tighter before looking at me again.

"Glad to hear it, John. Look, I know you don't want to go back to the AA meetings. I understand that; the whole group understands it, but John... you look like death."

I huffed at him. What does he know? I looked at his kid. She was laughing and had the biggest smile on her tiny kid face. She doesn't know yet. The pain. She was innocent. An innocent little bean. I tore my eyes away from the kid, I felt like sobbing.

"I know a place where you can get it all out. It's nothing like the meetings John. It will help you."

The forgotten storm picked up. The wind that once caressed me, now poked and prodded at my clothes. The kid's giggles erupted from tiny to loud. She liked the wind. I shrugged.

"I need to get going. I have things to do. It was good seeing you Micheal, and your kid. Happy little thing, yeah?"

"Yeah she is, isn't she? It was good to see you too John. We should really catch up sometime."

With that, Micheal headed off with the little bean; leaving me alone with our conversation still thrumming in my mind. I pushed open the iron gates and made my way to you. Bile rose in my throat, but I swallowed it. I needed to do this. I owed it to you.

To myself.

By the time I reached your spot under the somber tree, fat water droplets were falling hard. I stood awhile in silence, thinking of what I should say to you. There was so much to say, so much to tell you, and yet nothing came out. Maybe it was because I had said all I could say to you: two years ago. I had spent many nights awake thinking of what I would say to you if I ever came back here. I had planned on getting everything off my chest, and yet, I'm standing here in the rain, with nothing to say.

Maybe that was saying everything.

******************

Hours passed with no words said. I was soaked to the bone, tears staining my cheeks that mixed with the rain. My head was resting on your tombstone when I finally let out what I had been holding in for so long. Words that I had to deal with on my own.

"I love you," I let out a shaky breath. "I have always loved you. I think you knew that. Maybe you didn't, but maybe you did. I don't think I could have ever physically said these things to you if you were alive. I was raised to believe that loving a man was wrong, it was beaten into me in fact, but dammit Sherlock, I love you...but...you've hurt me so deeply. You left me so alone, and I am the most selfish person for saying this, but I am so angry at you for taking your life away from me. There was so much pain when you left Sherlock. So much pain.."

The rain had let up at this point, leaving the graveyard to smell of death and earth. I was sobbing profusely beside your grave. I think I had let my tears build up. After all, I had practically locked myself up in our flat with your ghost still haunting me. I let my breathing even out before I wiped the remaining tears from my face and stood up. Rubbing the top of your headstone, I let one last tear fall from my eyes.

"I forgive you for it. I forgive you for leaving. I'm sorry for not coming to see you sooner. I think I wasn't ready yet. I needed time. Thank you, Sherlock. You were the best man I had ever met, and I will always love you. Goodbye, Sherlock."

I stepped away from his grave.

Walked out of the graveyard.

My phone buzzed.

A text from Micheal:

The meeting starts at six, here is the address (insert address here), I will see you there John. :)

I smiled and began walking forward.


	3. CHAPTER THREE

*************************

The building looked old and worn out. Cracks in the colored bricks, vines growing all around: definitely dirty windows. It was chaotic in a vintage-sort of way. It was aged and used- worn down.

Like me.

I checked the address Micheal had given me twice before accepting that this was the true meeting place.

The storm had completely passed by this time, the ruminates of its presence lingered on the stairs and on the broken wood pieces that sat on the far right side of the porch. I brought my hand up to the thick wooden door, it looked new, replaced probably. I wonder what happened to the original. Three knocks, and light chattering behind the door before an older man opened it.

Handsome.

The man looked to be around his mid-forties, a slight build, light curly brown hair, soft green eyes, and dark olive skin. His eyes were the most fascinating part of his face -which was covered in a thick, massive, brown beard. He had deep-set wrinkles surrounding the edges of his piercing orbs. It reminded me of Sherlock. How his eyes could pierce right through me like he knew everything about me in just a few seconds but somehow was missing the barest parts of my heart. He was my best friend, how could he not know everything? I shook the thought away.

He was a good man, and I hadn't let myself believe that- at least not in time.

I regret it so much.

~~~~

There was a small tattoo under the man's right eye, it was a date. Deceased loved one? Birthday? Favorite date? Questions swarmed my head as the man gave me a once over and said:

"You must be... John?"

I gave a simple nod. Dismissing all my thoughts from earlier about Sherlock, about what I'd done and said. I didn't need to think of it now. Not while I'm in the open. He stepped out of the door frame to invite me in.

"Micheal said you would be arriving soon. He's in the back, down the hall, and on your right in the open area. Can't miss him."

I nodded again and followed his directions. I didn't wait for him to say anything more, I mean he was interesting enough, but the guilt of thinking about another man that way pulled me apart. There was a deep struggle to just let go and to keep holding on, just in case. It felt like a betrayal. I could feel a migraine settle in my frontal lobe. 

I made my way to the room where Michael was, sitting on a couch with a man, and woman. He seemed to be in a quiet conversation with them both. I awkwardly stood in the door frame, taking in the other people that mingled near the corners and food tables. I did not want to start off with being rude. 

The feeling of just wanting to entirely leave so I didn't have to face whatever was to come was overwhelming and exhausting at the same time. How do people settle with these things? The woman Michael was chatting with glanced my way then leaned closer to him and said something. Her voice was too low for me to hear. I rubbed my arm, not sure if I really wanted to be here. Michael turned and looked my way, once he recognized me, he smiled and waved me over.

"Hey, John! Glad you could make it!" 

I gave a simple nod. I didn't know what to expect exactly, but this...wasn't it.

What would you have thought of this place? You probably wouldn't have cared. These things never really interested you. Then again, neither of us used to have an alcohol problem.

Michael looked at me, a smile still on his face.

"Come sit John, and I'll introduce you to Harper and Peter. They've been with us since the beginning. Harper, Peter, meet John. He was apart of the AA group down in "Baskerville" a few months back." He gestured to the two people. I smiled at them. A weak smile, but it was something at least. A small and polite gesture, even though it wasn't exactly genuine. 

"Nice to meet you both." 

"Same from us John."

I sat beside Michael and silently watched as they fell back into a gentle conversation about Harper and Peters's new puppy Silas. I scanned the room, there was nothing special about it. A few couches, tables with food, and some chairs filled the room, but that was about it. A window with velvet curtains sat open near the other side of the room, filtering in natural light, and a cool breeze from the leftover storm flushed out the stuffy-ness of the room. 

Michael cleared his throat and stood. 

"Alright everybody let's gather in our places so this meeting can begin. "

The scattered people gathered in slow-motion, taking their time to finish conversations or their pastries. In total, the people that sat in the group were around eight. It was smaller than the one I was in before. Better less than more. I wrung my hands together.

I feel out of place. 

I would've been in place with you.

"Okay, to begin this meeting, we'll start by introducing our guest for today, John Watson. John, take it from here." 

Sweat formed on my brow. I wasn't prepared for this. Introduce myself? What? Michael said nothing about introducing myself to them! Though maybe I should have prepared, this was, in fact, an AA meeting after all. I gave Michael a panicked glance, before clearing my throat.

"Just introduce yourself like old times." 

I nodded.

I thought this wasn't going to be like the 'old times', but I guess I was wrong.

"Hey, um, My names John Watson, as Michael said before. I uh haven't been to a meeting in a while, but um- I have been sober for six months. As you can guess, I am a little rusty at introductions, but I hope to get to know all of you."

I wiped my sweaty hands on my now -dry- pants and sat back down. Michael patted my shoulder to comfort my uneasiness. Everyone politely clapped for me, as I'm sure they understood that it is sometimes difficult to do these things. 

"Well, everybody now it's your turn to go around and introduce yourselves to our guest! Macy, why don't you start us off?"

*************************************

Parker had just finished talking about his week when it turned to me. Everyone, so far, has been dealing with struggles that are way worse than mine, and I felt guilty for being so stuck up in myself. So selfish for pushing people away, when people who've been through worse still managed to keep themselves together. Though I know that it must be really difficult for them. I've ruined myself because I couldn't save you as you saved me and it haunts me every day of my life. 

It haunts me, Sherlock.

"Wow, Parker, I am so sorry that your mother died, my condolences." Parker gave me a knowing and grateful look.

"I guess it's my turn to share huh? Um, well, today marks the two year anniversary of my best friend's death. His name was Sherlock... Sherlock Holmes. He um...committed suicide, and... I keep replaying that day over and over again in my head. Like a record player, one could say. It's like I'm stuck, with no way to get out because there's nobody like him. I-," Tears welled up in my eyes, clawing and reaching, but I forced them back. I'd already cried over you once today. 

"He was such an amazing person, and when he died, he took all of me with him. I-I loved that man with everything I was, yet I was so blinded that I didn't even-...I couldn't see-..." a ball formed in my throat making it hard to speak. Hard to breathe.

I looked down at my hands, which were uncontrollably shaking like I was cold. I wasn't cold.

"I um... visited his grave today. For the first time in around a year. I told him, well I told his gravestone, that I loved him. Now I know it seems weird, but it was something I didn't get the chance to tell him when he was alive. Whether or not he felt the same I'll never know exactly. Maybe he loved me, but then again Sherlock was not fond of love or any concept of it. He was a practical man, yes...and he was brilliant."

My vision blurred from holding back the tears, and I could feel my eyes swell up. Nice going, John.

"The most brilliant man I'll ever have met." 

Micheal passed me the tissues and everyone listened quietly. It hurt so bad. It all hurt, and I felt it all. It was so painful like I was getting stabbed over and over, but it was because I had pent up so much and I thought I had gotten it all out at your grave, that I had told you everything I needed to, maybe I was just foolish.

It was all I could do to not scream or break things. 

The meeting ended and everyone settled into their own conversations again. I finished wiping the tears that had slipped from my eyes and sighed.

I felt nothing and everything at the same time. 

And I was beginning to understand it.


	4. CHAPTER FOUR

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is short, sorry.

******************

I looked out the window of the taxi, watching as the buildings and trees blurred together into a mix of red and grey. The group dispersed shortly after I finished but at least the puffiness in my eyes had gone down. I felt different somehow. It'd been a while since I'd done anything with a group, especially open up like that. To be honest it was bloody embarrassing. A grown man pining for somebody whose dead. Hell.

A buzz from my phone caught my attention. 

Micheal. 

-Hey John, I'm really glad you came to the meeting.

\- I know it might've been a little embarrassing for you, but I want you to know that what you did today was amazing.

-I'm glad you opened up about Sherlock. You know I'm here for you. The next group meeting is in two weeks.

-I'll see you then :)

I rolled my eyes and smiled. I felt like I actually looked forward to going to the next meeting. It gives me something to do at least, something to look forward to. I replied with a simple 'Yeah' and shoved my phone in my pocket. Texting wasn't a thing I liked to do anymore. It reminded me of our old conversations and how you wouldn't respond if I texted you.

When the taxi reached my stop I paid and got out. I slipped quietly into our flat and changed out of my clothes into pajamas. There was no use in staying in uncomfortable clothes when I wasn't going to be heading out again today. 

After making a cuppa I grabbed a blanket from my bed and sat in my chair. The same one that taunted me day in and day out. Reminding me that you were gone, and I was here. I don't know why I never got rid of it. Then again I don't know why I never moved out. There was no point in paying for a two-bedroom flat that only one person lives in. 

Maybe I'll find another roommate...

No. 

I shook the thought from my head as soon as it entered. Everything I do is controlled by thoughts of you.

"Fuck you, Sherlock."

My words drifted in the air and dispersed. I bet you'd look at me with a momentarily surprised face, but then come back with some stupid remark about how 'you're married to your work', or 'at least take me out to dinner first'. You had been practicing jokes for awhile. They were never funny but I loved you even more for trying. 

I rubbed my eyes. I'd grown tired from everything today. It was all so exhausting. Life was so exhausting without you in it. It was dark now, shadows gathered in the corners of the flat. I got up and grabbed a candle from the candle pile that sat beside my chair. I lit it and set it on a small table beside the window that overlooked the street. I've done this almost every night since you were buried. 

It's stupid and impractical you'd tell me, I know. The dead would never be able to see it, you'd say. I'd shake my head and simply tell you its something that comforts people, and that everyone grieves in their own way. 

I'd tell you that, it's so that you know I'm still thinking of you. That you haven't been forgotten. 

That I'll always leave the light on for you.

So come home.


End file.
